Bombs Away
by xxTheInsaneOnexx
Summary: Cambridge elites, so full of hope and prosperity; they all strove to be the best. Mail found himself unsatisfied with money and prosperity. Mihael was unsatisfied as well. Needing something more substantial.  WWII. Lemon
1. Chapter 1

-1-

"All of you, gentlemen, are members of the prestigious Cambridge academy. I'm sure you all recall those past, those who have achieved great feats of intellectual nature. We welcome you here, to not only match those that came before you, but to reach further and become the best men you can be; for yourselves, your university, and for your country,"

A toast followed the chancellor's speech, and the freshmen entering into the academy were all welcomed to a dinner. The best of the best were gathered in one setting, and all talked amongst each other happily; hiding behind a veil their true intentions of becoming the better man.

Mail Jeevas took a drag of his cigarette, and blew out a smoke ring, smiling idly at the conversations he had around him: he knew all of them just briefly, but he was a very likable young man. A scotsman through and through, from his red hair to his thin physique.

Across the room, sat a man who defied the odds and had arrived at the highest ranking school in the nation: Mihael Keehl. From the moment one saw him, it was apparent he didn't fit in. He wasn't a brit, he was an immigrant from Russia, and not from the most respected family. He had arrived at Cambridge on wits alone, not by royalty or money. Yet he made the best attempt to hide that, sitting cross-legged in the corner, in suit, alone.

Mail took no notice of the man for a long time, until the merry-making was well over, and the night was cold and deep. He had slipped on his jacket and hat, and after saying good-bye to the meager acquaintances he had made, had stepped out the door. Upon leaving, he found, quite to his surprise, the young blonde outside. His eyes were locked on the full moon above, as if observing if it were different than his moon back in Moscow.

"What are you doing?"

Mail didn't mean to be abrupt in his actions, but took a few steps closer, until the two were side by side, staring up at the sky together. Mihael said nothing for a few moments, and for a second Mail wondered if he were both deaf and queer: until a smirk appeared on his face.

"Waiting to see if anyone would approach me and ask that very question,"

His voice was lush, and yet seemed to have picked up the accent of the nation, the strangest combination of battling countries.

Mail was quite unsure of how to answer this, and blew out a final billow of smoke, stepping the cigarette out with his shoe.

"You're not quite like the other men here, are you, um-"

"Mihael...Mihael Keehl."

Mail nodded, looking up from the ground to meet eyes with the man he had just been introduced to.

"Mail Jeevas,"

Mail stuck out his gloved hand, as he had learned was proper despite the circumstances, and found Mihael didn't take it- instead turned away, shoving his hands in his pockets.

"You might want to be a little more courteous when you meet someone, Mr. Jeevas. Never who they'll turn out to be," He looked back, a pace or two away by now, and smiled, his pale cheeks shining in the dim light, "And if you weren't so interested in trying to make a good impression, you might have noticed that your fly has been undone the whole evening. Good night."

He turned around once more, finally, and walked off down the cobble-stone streets, without another word or notice of Mail, who stood there, shell-shocked, staring after him.

"That damn prat," he began, pacing about the room, drink in his hand, "Who does he think he is, telling me I should be more courteous- he's the one who bloody well told me my pants were undone..."

"Well if you think he is such a prat, Mail, then why are you taking such an insult to this?"

The red head took a drink, letting a drip or two run down his chin and drop onto the floor. He never answered, so Nate continued,

"He obviously wanted you to be upset, and don't you think it's below you to sink to his childish level? It's our first week at Cambridge, and for God's sake can't you act like a gentlemen?"

Mail sunk into his seat, the fire flickering lightly by his feet, "Well at least I have emotions, Nate,"

The man across from Mail simply shrugged lightly, standing up without a reply to that.

"And at least I can act my age, Mail."

He shut the door behind him, leaving the young man in his drawing room, alone, with nothing but his thoughts. It was early morning, and classes began soon, the first of his formal education in such an establishment as this. With a sigh, he downed the last of his drink, and stood up, dressing for class, and was immediately assaulted by maids as he left the room. He shooed them away, not in the mood for intense pampering at the moment, and left the building.

His family was not only sound in their economical standing, but in their intellectual standing as well: he was from those that were the best in the country, and was expected to follow in their footsteps. The perks seemed to outweigh the cons most of the time, but when it came right down to it, the pressure was on him. Yet Mail was Mail, with a smile and a quirky remark, always there to achieve that power he had forced upon him.

He was the sort of man people would look at on the street, and tell their young children that that was what society looked for in a person, and that was what they never could be. It both enthralled and sickened him that the world was only based on looks and money: something he had the most of.

"Mihael Keehl, you are late," were the words first spoken upon the young man entering nearly twenty minutes after class had started. Mail had to blink, looking at the man he had seen only in the moonlight, now in full view for everyone.

He was not very tall, yet that height was skewed by the fact that his hair grew much longer than was acceptable for men of the country. He seemed as if he were an animal trying to fit in with humanity, in the fact that he wore a suit and tie like the rest of them, yet was alienated by the fact that he was at the complete opposite end of the spectrum. The room was silent, and no one said a word except, that is, for Mr. Keehl.

"I noticed." He nodded to the instructor, walked over to a near-by desk, and sat there, sitting at ease while eyes were on him. The elder man in front said nothing, and seemed quite in shock.

"Go on, sir, sorry to interrupt your very important lesson," the sarcasm in his voice was about as thick as his skull was, and caused a few students to laugh around Mail. Yet, with disdain, the man continued on with his lesson on physics, while many took notes very diligently. That is, with the exception of Mihael, who seemed quite bored with the subject; and he seemed intent to make that apparent to everyone about him.

"Mihael," the man said suddenly, causing quite a few people to write down the word, before finally noticing there was really no point in it, "can I help you?"

"Why yes, you can actually," Mihael stood up, and waltzed his way up to the front of the classroom, as if it were nothing, and pointed to an equation on the board.

"I was just wondering, sir, why you seem to make fools of all of us highly intelligent young men, by giving us such a simple problem to solve."

The silence in the room was staggering, except for the strange stagnated noises coming from the professor's mouth. At length, he finally spoke something comprehensible.

"Well Mr. Keehl, it seems like you think you can teach the bloody whole class," he began, his face turning more red by the second, "So here-" he stole a piece of chalk, and marked out the previous problem, instead writing an intricate problem far beyond the minds of Mail or any of the others in the classroom. When he was down, he took a step to the side, and crossed his arms, a smug little smirk on his face, "Solve it."

Mihael stood there for a moment, his eyes glazing the problem over, taking in everything as if a piece of art. Mail wasn't quite sure what to think: the first day of college and here he was, amidst a sort of battle-of-wits with his teacher and the man of whom he had just met a night before. A damned immigrant and an established man with years of expertise on his side, battling as if their lives depended on it. Yet Mihael seemed quite sure of himself, as he picked up the chalk, and wrote a simple number on the opposite side of the equation. Before turning around and letting the rest see what he wrote, he spoke, the smile apparent in his tone.

"Sir, I think you've really out-done yourself this time, in trying to insult my intelligence with such a problem as this," he backed away from the problem, and the realization in the professor's face was quite laughable: his mouth agape, he flipped through the pages of his text-book, back to the problem, and back to the book again. Meanwhile, Mihael simply slunk back to his seat, flipping his blonde hair from his face.

A damn prat, and well proud of it.

When he came back from the meeting of the board, it was dark and well into the evening. The whole class, and many who had heard of the incident were gathered around the building to see what had happened: and many, not knowing Mihael even by name, were on him, asking what had happened.

He answered none of the questions, the inquisitions, but smiled, and shoved his hands in his jacket pockets, moving through the crowd and back to the main library, where Mail followed, intending to find a motive for his impudence.

When Mihael finally noticed Mail, tailing him through the rows of books and history, he stopped point-blank, and turned back smirking. "I see you've properly dressed yourself today, Mr. Jeevas."

Mail took a few steps closer, his red hair hiding the furrowed eye-brows. "I see you're still the same, Keehl."

Mihael shook his head, moving through the shelves and idly picking up a book in his small hands, taking no notice of the red-head nearby, "Remember, Mr. Jeevas, you really should be more courteous."

"Me? Courteous?" He laughed, and crossed his arms, taking a few steps closer, "What would you call what you are then? A saint?"

"I would say I'm more of a regular man who's sure of who he is and what he wants in the world. I don't pretend to be anything else, unlike most people here."

Mail knew that it would be quite unacceptable someone of his standing to do what he wanted to do so badly, yet no one was around to witness it. In a moment Mihael's collar was shoved upon the window opposite, with Mail's green eyes staring into Mihael's.

"You've got to be the most narcissistic man I've ever seen: I sincerely hope that wherever the fuck you came from the people there are not quite so pathetic-"

Mail didn't know what had happened, yet he was on the ground, held by his wrists by the man of whom he had just been insulting.

"And I hope you know that all of you are the same: wishing that they could be what they're not and always striving for some ungodly amount of power and never achieving it, dying cold and alone." Mihael glared back into the green eyes below him, and just lie there for a while, Mail looking back up without a single word.

Mihael finally stood up, and shook his hair from his face, brushing a piece behind his ear. "Though you don't seem to be quite so conceited- you seem like you're hiding something, Mr. Jeevas. I just wish you weren't so thick, you might see just what was under that mask of your's."

Mail took him by the sleeve, and Mihael turned around, in time to see a face he did not expect.

"I don't even know you, Mihael. How is it that you seem to know everything about me, suddenly?"

He had hit the mark right on the dot, and Mihael didn't need super-human powers to at least get that much. "Because I actually pay attention to people,"

Mihael had shaken his arm away, turning away and walking off with a brisk pace, not caring to look back: that smug attitude of his was gone, replaced by complete and utter devastation. 


	2. Chapter 2

-2-

The term had finished, and all the students had left the now frigid Cambridge to warmer climate. Winter was truly a Hell of a time to try to finish up a essay, and Mail wished now he hadn't procrastinated as much as he had.

His family had told him to stay in Cambridge until the essay was done, and so his large house was sparse but the maids, Mail, and his thoughts.

He hadn't seen Mihael for the last few days of class, despite the fact that the two always seemed to run into eachother at both supervisions and lectures. They hadn't exchanged a word to the other, except perhaps 'Morning' and 'Good evening'. Mihael kept on with his smug attitude about class, and Mail could tell the instructors truly detested the sight of him. He wondered, idly, why they didn't expell him that first day: before remembering the equation that first day of school.

Of course, he was there on smarts and smarts alone: anything to make the prestigious 'Cambridge' even more prestigious.

Mail would take walks about the campus on occasion, despite the fact that the ground beneath his feet would crack with ice. It was a few days into vacation that Mail finally met up with Mihael, simply by mistake. He had wandered into a cafe, in need of coffee to soothe his nerves, and found the man catering to him was none other than Mihael himself.

"Mihael? What are you-"

"I'm working, Mail, as I would hope you would be able to tell,"

A smart-ass as always.

"Yes, yes..." He deverted his eyes from the Mihael he was quite unable to picture: hair up in a pony-tail and with a full-on butler-like-demeanor. "I'll have...a...coffee."

"Right,"

Mihael moved about the tables with ease, his feminine figure definietly coming in handy when it came to moving about the crowded space. Mail breathed life into his cold hands, the fire flickering opposite of him barely enough to warm people right next to it. His mind was mudded: he wanted to ask Mihael where he had been, and some part of him seemed to want to know everything about the man he had met when his schooling had started.

He returned soon after, placing a coffee in front of Mail, steaming and bringing Mail warmth immediately. Yet, instead of leaving, Mihael instead set himself down at the seat opposite Mail, watching him quite intently.

"So Mail," he seemed to drop his pretencious demeanor here in such a place, "What are you doing still in Cambridge? I thought you would have left on vacation."

"My parents left me here to finish a report I have to do on the theory of evolution...a boring topic let me assure you, especially since the theory just became accepted a few years ago..."

"Hm. What a way to spend your Christmas."

"And what are you doing, Mihael, here in a position like this? Aren't you one of the _'fine members of Cambridge's elite?'"_

Mihael laughed, and Mail was quite taken aback by something from the man of whom, last time they had exchanged a conversation, had been tearing Mail apart bit by bit.

"Well, unlike you, I have to work for a living. Life isn't bright for a poor working immigrant like myself, Mail." Though the words were indeed quite depressing in nature, Mail could tell it was being spoken jokingly, and with a smile on his face.

"I suppose I wouldn't know..."

The cafe had seemed to empty while they conversed, and now it was simply the two of them, sitting across from one another while snow powdered the land around them. They talked for a good while, both trying desperatley not to bring up the night early that year.

"I should get back to work, Mail. Good luck on that report of your's..."

"Um...Mihael...I um..."

Mihael looked back to Mail, his eyebrows raised slightly in interest. "Yes?"

"When you get off of work, would you...be interested in maybe having some tea?"

There was no expression on either of their faces for what seemed like hours: Mihael in the process of standing, and Mail sitting there, hands cradeling the empty coffee cup.

"You brits and your tea," Mihael smirked, standing up and adjusting his hair, "I'll be interested, if you include cakes in this deal of your's. If you can meet my demands, I'll meet you outside in a two hours."

Mail left, not knowing quite why he had said that: they weren't friends. In fact, one might say they were enemies. They didn't have much in common, and never really had a worthwhile conversation. Hell, they didn't know eachother. Yet he wanted to know Mihael: in a childish sort of way, he wanted to know everything about the stranger from another world.

Mail hadn't much to do while waiting for Mihael: his house was a good distance away from the cafe, and walking back and forth in this weather would be pure suicide. So the scotsman did something he rarely did. He observed.

It was early in the evening, and in the midst of his dear Cambridge lay many interesting things he had never noticed before. The drunkards sitting in the warmth of pubs, avoiding the life at home and the realities of the world. The children running out of their doorways while their mothers told them it was time for dinner.

Sitting in the pub just down the street, Mail took in the events happening around him, as Mihael had said he did to relate to people so well. He had never had a childhood like that: that in which he would run around freely, with no care in the world. One in which the only thing on his mind was what would happen the next day: not in the next thirty years.

With a sigh, he smoked cigerette after cigerette, trying to step into the shoes of those he had seen on the streets but not really _noticed_. Hours passed, and people in the bar filtered out and in, each with their own unique story to tell. And each Mail was having trouble depicting what there was to say. What was he doing wrong, that Mihael was able to do so well?

The clock struck nine o'clock, and the old men waiting to spill their hearts out were filtering back into the bar; and with that Mail left, the snow now hiding the streets in a way that even light posts had no power against. It was a Hell of a day to be working, and if anything Mail felt sympathy for the man he knew just briefly.

When he finally forged his way to the cafe, Mihael was there just as he said he would be. He stood outside, snow beginning to pile on his shoulders, and at Mail's arrival he made a slight motion of his head. Mail opened his umbrella, an item really unnecessary in times like these, and shielded Mihael against the snow.

They made their way through the snow storm to the nearest taxicab, and the two were off to Mail's mansion of a house. The two didn't speak a word: it was cold, and Mihael knew as well as Mail that it would be Mail that would have to initiate the conversation: after all, it was Mail who had invited him.

Now that it had come right down to it, Mail had no idea what to say. There they sat, in the drawing room both in two imacuatley plush chairs, sipping on tea in total silence. Why had he done this? He had been a fool to think he could possibly relate to the stranger he had invited into his home.

"Mail, I am sure you didn't invite me here as a friend, we hardly know one another. So what is it you want?"

Mail coughed, putting down his cup to try and look Mihael in the eye-yet something about the way he stared right at you, his blue eyes piercing, made a shiver run down his spine.

"Well it was actually about that..." Mail began, fixing his tie nervously, although it was already as perfect as it could be, "I felt that, well, we might have gotten slighted ideas of one another and um...I for one wanted to know more about you..."

Mihael was surprised, and let it show on his face, but spoke calmly. "That's unlike you, to actually care about what a person is like and not about where they stand socially-"

"That's what I'm talking about Mihael!" Mail had stood up, a glare forming on his face as he looked down at Mihael, who still sat unmoving in the chair, "You seem to have this pre-determined notion of what people with money are like. You, of all people, seem to be unwilling to look past that and see what people are really like. I'd love it if you would take a moment to see I'm not a heartless bastard, and that I actually have sympathy."

Mail breathed out deeply, and from his shirt pocket pulled out a cigerette, lighting it and quickly blowing out a puff of smoke. Mihael said nothing, and for the first time it seemed _he_ was lost for words.

"Alright, Mail, then tell me," Mihael finally began, his voice shakey and without that same calmness it held before, "What are you like behind all this pretending?"

Mail sighed deeply, slumping back into the chair, cigerette still in hand. "Alone," he said quietly, his voice barely a whisper. "Alone and trying to find my place in the world, and trying to be what I'm expected to be."

Mihael could have come up with a snide remark: he could have scoffed at the rich-man's sorrows, and laughed. Mihael could have done a lot of things, all of which Mail would have expected before this.

"There's one thing in which we're the same, Mail..." he took a sip of tea, and let his eyes gaze over to the window, revealing a cold winter night only lit by snow plummeting down, "We both can't quite decide what we're looking for in life,"

Mail glanced up, in surprise, and watched him silently for a few moments, "You've always seemed like you know what you want, Mihael, what with this attitude of your's against society and such."

"Hm. Call it my version of 'fight-or-flight' if you will," he chuckled, brushing a piece of hair behind his ear, "Can't seem to decide which side I want to take."

"I did misjudge you," Mail approached Miheal, who still sat with the same glazed look on his face, "Interesting how much you can learn about a person through such a brief little conversation,"

Mihael stood up, and the two stood in the room, together, looking in each other's eyes like there was more there to learn.

"Well, happy Christmas, Mr. Jeevas. I'll see you at the start of term I suppose," The blonde took a few steps away, and collected his coat from the coat hanger opposite the room. "Good luck with that essay of your's-"

He had been spun around, and found Mail's hands on his shoulder's, a desperate look in those green eyes.

"Mihael-I-..."

"Yes?"

"I apologize for um...what I've said...you are really much different than I've given you credit for..."

Mihael smiled, and took Mail's hands off his shoulders, keeping one hand in his as sort of hand shake. "Apology accepted. Now goodnight Mail, I do have places to get."

"Wait a minute, isn't it about time I say goodbye to you properly, Mihael? Everytime we've met you always seem to be the one off in a hurry..." Mail smiled lightly, his cheeks the tiniest tint of pink.

"I suppose. Well then, _your majesty_, would you mind escorting me out?"

"Of course, of course..."


	3. Chapter 3

-3-

"Mihael, how in _God's name_ did you come up with this?"

The blonde smirked, letting his feet rest up on the table in front of him. "It wasn't all that, Mail. It was just my term report, didn't take much thought."

Mail's eyes widened at that little remark, and held up the papers in front of him, as if it were a godly gift. "You're completely revising some of the most well-known theories in our world, and you're telling me it wasn't much thought?"

"Well I didn't realize you took such interests in your schooling, sorry for offending you,"

Mail scoffed, setting the papers on the table, running his fingers through his blood-maroon hair. "God, I swear..." he shut his eyes, letting his head fall back upon the support of the chair, "You're one of the most self-assured men I've ever met,"

"Thanks,"

The library was emptying out for dinner, and not many remained amongst its halls of books. Early spring had risen it's head from the cracks of winter, and Mail's family had returned once again from Scotland, (hearby denying Mail of some of the perks of living by himself). The two had grown closer, and frequently would meet up somewhere or another to talk about whatever the daily topic was.

The more time Mail spent with Mihael, however, the more he realized he really was missing something from life. Nate had in the meantime gotten himself a girl, and left Mail with Mihael for company. He knew he needed that little extra thing that only a girl could give him: and he really found himself not craving it. He confused him, knowing that these were the best years of his life, and he was quite unable to find what he wanted out of them.

"You seem a bit off today,"

"What?"

Mihael shook his head, coming to attention at Mail, who stared at him with green piercing eyes. "I had asked you a question, and then you just went blank."

"Oh-right, sorry-um...what was it?"

"Are you ok?"

Mihael laughed nervously, standing up and putting that long hair of his up into a ponytail. "It's not like you to notice something like that, Mail."

"And it's not like you to be so obviously upset about something,"

The flipping of pages miles away was the only thing that could be heard, as the blonde searched within him for an answer to that. His heart thud in his chest, and he took a step away, turning his back on the ginger.

"Will you come back to my house for some drinks? I'll tell you all about that report if you want, Mail."

"Mihael?"

The smile on his face as he looked around was possibly the fakest one Mail had ever seen. "I'll even give you tea if you want, you damn brit, though I was hoping for something a bit stronger."

"Hm...Wonder what my mum will say about leaving the confinds of my dear university,"

"Well excuse my language, Mail," the blonde began, the smile gone from his face, "but fuck your mother, you're well off to do whatever you please,"

Mail really had no choice, at that point, then to go with him, walking the short distance from the library to his apartment.

It was so worn down, Mail had to make sure he had ended up at the right address. Filthy dogs lie in the street, covered in rags and begging for money. Drunkards, already as trashed as one could be, kicked the dogs, and spit in their direction.

"Mihael-is...this really your home?"

"Something like that,"

Mail was, in deed, quite afraid to leave his car out in the view of people such as these; and yet he was brought to the building in a sort of awe. The gates hang off their screws, and squeek as Mihael push them open gently. The grass was unkept, and littered with trash of all sorts. Mihael's head was down; ashamed of such a place he had invited Mail into.

The apartment had seen better days, that much was certain. Stones were covered with vines and mold, and the door shuttered as it was being pushed open. No one had cleaned the wood floors for a good long while, considering the filth collecting on them was truly grotesque.

The blonde led him up the stairs, and down the hall, shivers running down Mail's back as he felt stares on him: he held back temptation and didn't look. He knew he was a stranger here, he in his well-kept clothes and demeanor.

Mihael's door was the second to the last one, and the key opened the door, revealing a look into Mihael's life he had never seen before.

"Here we are,"

Mihael shut the door behind Mail, and took his coat off, placing both his and Mail's on the coat rack by the door. Mail was struck with amazement: Mihael's apartment was the squeekiest clean thing he had ever seen, probably due to the lack of anything in it. There were three chairs, all spread about the small space randomly, and a bed shoved against the wall opposite the one window. It was one room, which seemed to be enough to the young Russian.

There were no items of the past. Not a single thing to make anyone think that this man had a life before he entered Cambridge. Mihael sat on the bed, undoing two of the buttons on his shirt and getting rid of his boots.

"Well, are you going to stand there and gape or are you going to sit?"

"Oh-right." Mail, woken out of his comatose state of shock, immediatley sat in the closest chair he could find, and sat as stiff as a rail.

"You seem surprised," Mihael chuckled, reaching under his bed and retreiving a suitcase.

"I just had expected something a bit more-"

"Oh," Mihael had opened the case, and pulled out a bottle of whiskey, and two glasses, "Something more admirable for a Cambridge elite?"

"I guess you could say that," Mail took in his hand the whiskey given to him, and eyed it curiously, letting his forefinger run around the rim of the old glass.

"I'm not too based on getting the biggest house or the most expensive items, Mail. I spend my time trying to further myself,"

"But you must make enough money to get out of this...place," Mail's eyes trailed to the window, where smoke billowed out of crumbling chimneys.

"What I like about it here," Mihael said idly, downing the glass of whiskey in one fell swoop, "Is that no one asks questions. No one gives a damn about who you are, they just care that you get out of their way,"

"I can see an advantage in that," Mail agreed, downing the drink as well. Mihael went about filling up his glass again, and the red head has his filled as well.

"So Mail; what is your mother like? You always mention her as if she's a beast out of Hell,"

Mail laughed, shrugging his shoulders slightly, "She's not quite that bad. She likes things to be in her control; and with the money she has, she nearly has the whole British embassy at her feet,"

"So I suppose you're just another thing she can control?"

A sigh was released from his lips, and the breath fogged up the cold cup he held in his hands, "Yes,"

"I guess there's not woe in my not having a mother then?"

Mail looked up, seeing the glazed-eye Mihael looking off into the distance. "You don't have a mother?"

"Nah. My dad killed her nearly fifteen years ago."

Mail's expression didn't change much, but he simply looked away, embarrased to have hit on such a topic, and muttered a small 'I'm sorry'. Mihael just shrugged it off, and took a drink from his glass once more.

There wasn't much to discuss for a good while afterwards; the only thing said was 'fill me up again' and that went on until the bottle had been pretty much reduced to half of it's former glory. Mail's cheeks were red with alcohol, and Mihael was swaying a little, as if dancing to a song only he could hear.

Until Mihael spoke, his words slurred with alcohol.

"Y'know...I didn't really invite you here to talk about a damn report..."

"Hm? Oh right...forgot about that..." Mail laughed lightly, hiccuping at the end of his

sentance, and took a swig from his drink-interrupted by the arrival of a warm being on his lap.

Mail looked up, and lowered the drink, so much so that it fell from his fingers and landed with a clank against the wood flooring. "Mihael-what are you doing-"

"I invited you here because I told you I knew who I was. And knowing that much, I have to tell you the truth."

"Mihael I-"

"It really is a shame, isn't it?"

"Hm?"

The cold outside had no effect on the two, admist piles of paperwork and the very structure of those at the mercy of their decisions. The older one, this Watari as he was called, bent over the papers he had been referring to. With reading, he came to a realization, and let out a sigh, returning back to the window.

"A shame that such a brilliant mind should have such a terrible history falling him,"

The second term had been going on for quite a while, and life in the university was going as it always had. The male students, all with their whole life ahead of them, going on happily. The pressure of the Great War was off now: and all was prosperous. Roger was always a skeptic when it came to terms of prosperity. He was the sort that, whenever there was a peace, he knew that something must be brewing in some country or another. The same was that with people; any person who appears sincere must have some sort of hidden meaning behind it.

That philosophy had worked for most of his life.

"Watari, you know we can't have a man like this in our institution, no matter how much of a genius he is."

"Roger,"

The man at the desk perked up, his grey hairs falling about his eyes. Watari, of whom was still staring out at the scenery far below him, spoke again.

"What do you intend we do with him? Isn't it you that said we need a man to bring Cambridge back to its former glory?"

"Well yes, but-"

"Well what? If any man is going to achieve greatness, it'll be young Mihael Keehl. I don't care what his past is, whether he's killed men or simply raped them. That was before. The reality of it is that he is here now, within England's borders,"

"Yes and-"

"And if we were to let him go now, there's no telling where he would let that brilliance take him. To the East, perhaps?"

Roger had stood up, letting the papers of the Russian immigrant fall about the floor at his feet. The chair clattered to the ground with them, and at the sound, Watari looked about.

"You want a man like that representing our academy?"

"No one has to know about what happened those many years ago, Roger. I would encourage you to forget about it, because nothing is going to change my mind on the subject."

"But sir-he was convicted on four counts of rape- on _men_ no less! You expect me to let a man like that just continue life within this country as if it were all completely fine?"

"I expect you to do just that,"


	4. Chapter 4

-4-

"Why did you want to talk to me?"

"Oh-er-"

"Mail, I'm not an idiot. I can tell when something's wrong, so why don't you just tell me?"

The noises in the pub nearly drowned out Nate's voice, as he looked up from his meagar cup of water. His white hair set in a perfectly messy bunch upon his head, and his black eyes stared at him through bangs.

Mail was on his way of being drunk; possibly breaking a record for most time spent intoxicated within a two week period. He set his head in his palms, heaving a deep sigh.

"We've known eachother for a while, right?" the red head looked about him, checking if anyone else happened to be listening, "And you're much too intellegent to let one thing change your perspective of me, right?"

"Where are you going with this?"

A moment of silence between the two, except for the loud rendition of 'The Window Cleaner' the members of the pub happily chanted.

"I think I might be a homo,"

Nate's expressionless face didn't change at all as the words were spoken so blunt, and Mail nervously downed his next beer, some dribbling down his chin."

"Does this have to do with Mihael Keehl?"

"Who else?"

Mail rubbed tenderly at his temples, his mind buzzing with the memories of two weeks previous and the influence of alcohol. He was more confused than ever, and images of that night kept flashing in his mind's eye. He knew he should be disgusted, but the very fact that he wasn't made him come to this conclusion.

Nate took a sip of water, twirling a piece of hair around his free finger, "It's about time you come to that conclusion,"

The red head looked up suddenly, and his eyes were huge and struck with confusion, expecting anything but that reaction. "Oh, so had you come to the conclusion that I was a homosexual years ago?" His voice was stinging with sarcasm, mostly due to the fact that he was in disbelief.

"Basically. Face it, Mail, you've never had a single relationship, nor shown any interest in females. What did you think the reason behind that was?"

"Er..." he tried to think of the reason, never having really asked himself that question, "delayed puberty?"

"Mail, you're still the same person no matter what you want to do in bed. I don't see why it should matter so much."

"It matters..." he sighed, and downed yet another Guiness, "if I want to withold the Jeevas name,"

Nate shrugged, and looked the other right in the eyes, "No one has to know,"

"Mail...I..."

His voice was breathless, as he pushed his mouth against the red head's, his arms snaking around his neck. Mail didn't hold him back, but gasped for breath, unsure what to do with another's tounge in his mouth. He was quite unaware, in fact, that he began to get enthralled in the moment. Mihael tasted like chocolate; he was so good at this, the way his thighs stratled him, the way he kept moving about on his lap-

"Ah-"

Mihael smiled slightly, leaning up from the wet kiss as he saw the bulge in Mail's pants. It wasn't often something like that would happen so quickly; and it was painfully obvious that Mail was both intoxicated and a virgin. He leaned back down, a hand whisking its way down to Mail's pants, where he began to rub the erection through the fabric.

Mail moaned in response, his whole body tensing up. Mihael licked down Mail's neck, nibbling at the pale white skin, and felt around for the ties on his pants. He took his time, glad at being able to give him this reaction. He tried to hide guilt in the back of his head, and threw himself completely into giving Mail one of the best nights he could.

Once the erection was out of the tight pants, Mail breathed out a sigh of relief, his hips simply in instinct thrusting up lightly, in need of some physical contact to get rid of the pain. Mihael smiled, leaving a kiss on his light pink lips before leaning down to the member. He didn't mess around, and went right into it, licking the tip before engulfing it, his tounge moving about savoring every moment of it.

Mihael's own horribly painful erection was getting aparent by this point, and as Mihael tasted precum on the tip of Mail's member, he had started jacking himself off, unable to deal with Mail moaning so loudly. Mail came quickly, directly into Mihael's mouth, and Mihael swallowed it all, looking up breathlessly at Mail as his eyes fogged over. He let out a little sigh, and Mihael leaned up, watching as the red head untensed, leaving a small smile on his face, and closed his eyes.

It wasn't hard for Mihael to come afterwards, either. The sight of Mail lying there, breathless, his chest moving up and down slowly and his pale face bright red: he got off on it pretty easy. Once both had climaxed and landed themselves in heaven, Mihael fell against Mail, the chair underneath them squeaking in argument.

"Mail...o-oh my God..."

Mihael heaved a sigh, before pressing a many a kiss to Mail's lips. Mail didn't kiss him back, and Mihael knew he must be exhausted. It took a lot out of you, getting drunk and having your virginity taken. He chuckled lightly, kissing Mail's forehead and leaning back, watching as he slowly opened his dark green eyes.

"Mihael..."

The blonde nodded, sliding off him and holding out a hand, "You can sleep here if you want. It's pretty late now,"

Mail said nothing in return, but took his hand, standing up and wavering from side to side a bit. Mihael took care in taking Mail's shirt off, and taking his pants off, and before long the two were left simply in their underwear. Mail sat down on the bed, staring off into space, while Mihael looked down on him, the guilt coming back from the deep places in his mind.

However, without a word, Mihael slipped into the blankets next to him, facing the wall while Mail slipped under the blankets. The only light in the room was from the lights of the world outside, and Mihael stared at the wall, trying to think of how to apologize for what he had just done.

"Mail...please don't be mad at me alright? I couldn't...couldn't help myself and...God knows I've had enough heartbreak for one lifetime,"

Mihael sighed gently at not hearing any noise from Mail as he had expected, and he closed his eyes, hoping to fall asleep swiftly. "Well...goodnight,"

Little did Mihael know that Mail had fallen asleep long before any apology was given.

* * *

><p><em>I'm going to be totally honest with you.<em>

_OTL The Lemon scene sucked beyond all belief, probably because it was 3:00 am and I had just gotten through watching like five episodes of Toddlers and Tiaras. FFFF. I'm really tired of this chapter, I've been working on it and deleting what I had of it for days now, and just wanted it finished. As to why I didn't rewrite it yet again when I wasn't tired as fuck._

_In any case. The next chapter will be better (and longer) I promise you! I have good stuffs planned. ;w; Or something._


	5. Chapter 5

-5-

He had fucked up. He had fucked up big time and he knew it well. Sitting in his apartment, the young Mihael Keehl groaned angrily, looking down on the mess of papers that lie scattered around his bed. He hadn't attended classes for some time, and instead was in the process of taking matters into his own more capable hands.

He didn't need classes to gain knowledge: Hell, he would show up the last day of class with a huge dissertation, and show everyone that he didn't need them- he didn't need Mail, after what he had done to him.

It had ended up like all his other relationships; the other showed interest, he would make the move, and then: oops. They forgot it was wrong to be a homo, and they couldn't let anyone find out that they had interest in a guy. So there he was, behind bars, being blamed for a rape that was anything but.

Why had it turned out like this, he asked himself. Why was he such a God damned idiot? Who was he kidding, Mail wasn't like him. Fuck, it seemed no one was like him: sure of who they were but unsure as to what to do with that.

Mihael slammed his head back on the wall behind his bed, mumbling something in complaint, but doing nothing to stop the pain. The rain outside continued, and it had turned into a downpour very quickly. Days like this didn't help with his outlook: He was tired. He didn't plan on seeing Mail again, nor did he particuarly want to.

So when Mail came bursting in, Mihael was quite surprised.

"Mihael!"

The blonde looked up, his eyes huge, watching as Mail took a step into his apartment, as if in slow motion he watched as he leaned down, and found lips upon his. Water dripped from Mail's stark red hair onto his skin, yet that didn't stop him from wrapping his arms around Mail's neck, deepening the kiss as well as he could.

When Mail pulled back, the blonde was quite surprised to see tears sparkling in his green eyes.

"Mihael I-I'm sorry...I...I was confused and...It wasn't right what I did and...and..."

Mihael smiled. Tears finally spilled over and Mihael was smiling, wiping the tears away from his cheeks.

"Don't be. I should have expected something like that," he shrugged, kissing Mail's cheek softly, "Besides, it's not like I wasn't used to that."

"B-But your report I just-I...I'm sorry..." Tears seemed to be unstopable, and the red head's knees shook as he began to get more and more sorrowful.

"Not like I can't rewrite it," Mihael smiled softly, and took Mail's quivering hand in his, pulling him down next to him on the bed. Mail fell with ease, and was quick to get the bed completely soaked with his drenched clothes.

He rolled his eyes, his chest heaving as he released a sigh, and he turned to the red head. "Mail, I really wish you weren't soaked like that," he began to take off the jacket, and Mail made no movement whatsoever, but kept staring into space, sniffling slightly, "You're going to ruin what furniture I _do_ have,"

That seemed to be the limit for him, and at hearing he had messed something else up, Mail's tears came back ten-fold. He crumpled up in a ball, his head falling on the other's lap, his hands clenched on the sheets.

"Mi-Mihael I-" his voice cracked as he attempted to make some sensible words come from his mouth, "I can-can't take it...It's t-too...god damn stressful a-and...school a-and...you and..."

Mihael breathed slowly, his soft hand brushing through Mail's red hair. "Calm down," he whispered, trying to remain still logical, "It's alright,"

"L-Like _fuck_ it is!" Mail whipped his head up, tears running down his cheeks and dripping onto the floor. He looked inbetween an expression of complete despise and of complete sorrow, and it mixed between the two. "I come to the conclusion that _maybe_ I'm attracted to men, I fuck my midterm, and I'm fucking _crying_ my eyes out, and everything's alright?"

"Yeah, I am," Mihael was calm, and he broke his gaze from Mail, to the window, where lightning struck nearby.

"God dammit..." Mail forcefully wiped his tears away, resting his head on Mihael's shoulder, shutting his eyes as he finally calmed himself down.

After a minute, with the sniffles of Mail died down and the rain hammered harder on the roof, Mihael finally spoke, "Calmed?"

"I suppose," Mail sighed, snaking his arm around Mihael's.

"So...you..." Mihael brushed a strand of hair behind his ear, and looked down at the pale faced man next to him, "You're willing to call yourself...well..."

"You're the one who said I should be sure of who I am," Mail began, talking slower than usual, "No better way to do that than call myself a homo."

Mihael laughed lightly, leaning down to place a kiss on Mail's head, "You have a point,"

"So Mihael..." Mail began, scooting just an inch closer to him, "Does it hurt?"

"Hm?"

"Er..." A blush appeared on his face lush and dark, and he looked the other way, "Well-if I've um...heard correctly...to have well...sex you...um..."

It took a moment, but at seeing his embarrased expression, Mihael chuckled, unlatching their arms. "Not too bad. If you do it right,"

He brought their lips together, one hand latching onto Mail's, their fingers intertwining. Backing away, Mail's face was still the same bright red color, and Mihael couldn't help but feel his heart skip a beat. He was just too cute.

"Am I um...correct in guessing you know how to do it right then?"

Instead of giving a verbal response, Mihael smirked, pushing Mail down on the bed. He stradled him, staring down at the willing man underneath him. They kissed, and Mihael could feel, as his hands made their way down his lanky body, Mail's heart was pounding in his chest. Even more than that first night, and probably for good reason. He had been scared out of his mind that first time too.

Mail was shocked with his own actions as he undid every button on Mihael's shirt, revealing his smooth, flawless body. He shivered, leaning up to kiss from his neck to his upper chest. The very action of having something like that done to Mihael, no matter how small, made it immediatley obvious how much he cared for the man, in just the short time he had known him.

Every action of Mihael's was swift and knowledgeable; he found those places on Mail's body easily that caused the best reaction as he undressed him. Yet Mail's were more like a child in a candystore: he was more or less amazed at the very acts he was doing, and amazed at how the form of another man's body could cause him to feel this way.

"A-Ah-" Mail gasped out a small moan, finding his trousers down to his knees. His heart pound harder and harder in his chest.

"Mail-Mail relax..." His thumb and index finger rub gently at the tip of Mail's erection, and he leaned up, placing a small kiss on his lips, "The more you tense up the harder it will be for both of us..."

Mail breathed deeply, trying to focus on how Mihael stroked him; and for some time it worked alright. But as Mihael began to undo his pants, and placed his member at Mail's entrance; he began to tense up once again. So as Mihael thrust in, Mail cried in pain, holding onto the sheets under him.

He pulled out, and whispered lightly, "I love you Mail..."

The shock of that statement was probably why Mail didn't scream as he did the first time, and when Mihael got a rythmn going, he was able to see how it was enjoyable. They both were breathless, gasping and moaning, and Mihael had found that one spot; and hit it every time with precision.

Mail moaned loudly, something that was probably close to Mihael's name, and soaked Mihael in his cum. Before long, pounding into Mail once or twice more, Mihael came too. He pulled out, and sat a moment, breathing deeply, and looked back down at Mail.

He was smiling ever so slightly, and through his half-closed eyes he looked back up at Mihael, who stared back, awestruck.

"Hm. You told me that so soon?" Mail said softly, taking a break in between to breathe, "I guess I don't mind too much, though..."

Mihael couldn't help but grin, an expression that looked strange on his well framed face, and he fell half on him, resting his head on Mail's chest.

They didn't say anything else; and nothing else was really needed to say. They were together, and Mihael was on Cloud Nine. Everything he could have wished for had come to him in the end, and it seemed that an originally detestable move became a blessing for him. Never before had he met someone he was so certain would love him back, someone who he knew wouldn't give in to the demands of society.

It would be hard, Mihael knew that, but he was strong. There was no tearing Mihael away from him now: if it were going to turn out otherwise, he was through.

The two curled up there on the small bed until the rain outside started falling softly, and eventually ceased to fall at all. Before long Mail kissed the top of Mihael's head, and smiled, holding him close.

"I should go," he began, wrapping a strand of blonde hair around his finger, "It's getting late,"

"What, have to make it back home before your dear mommy gets worried?"

Mail chuckled softly, hiding behind it the sadness at having to leave, "Yeah, I'm already on her death list for missing class today,"

"Alright..." Mihael sat up, and before long Mail stood up, looking down at his damp clothes that had been forgotten on the floor. He debated putting them back on, and with a grimace decided there was no way in Hell Mihael's clothes would fit him.

So he changed, back into his wet clothes that stuck to him like a second skin, and he muttered a curse. Mihael stood up, smirking, he placed a kiss on his lips.

"You look like a wet dog," he gaze into his green eyes, "and you pretty much act like one too,"

Mail stuck out his lower lip in a sort of childish pout, and turned the other way.

"Shut it," he muttered, taking a step, before Mail found him being held back by a soft hand on his.

"Let's meet up in a day or two. Maybe have dinner or something," Mihael raised his hand up, and placed a kiss on it, "Of course, as subtle as we can be,"

Mail nodded, a slight chill going down his spine, still not used to how it felt to be in a relationship quite like this; as he probably would be for the rest of his life, "Yeah..."

When Mail got home, he found himself getting quite the lecture from his mother, who seemed very intent on learning where he had been, why, and why he was soaking wet. He wasn't in the mood, but didn't mind giving a snide remark, something as to, 'I was at a friend's, and I'm wet because it's raining outside, mother. Maybe if you took a step outside of your room you'd see that.'

This didn't give him the best reply, and his mother was left speechless. He didn't care though, he was still stuck in that room with Mihael, lying beside him without a care in the world, if just for a moment. He trudged his way up the stairs, and shut the door of his room behind him, sighing in relief.

It was easy to see he took his clothes off right when he was in the privacy of his own room, and he snuggled under the blankets of his warm, soft bed. He curled into a fedal position, and held the comforter up to his face. He couldn't help but imagine what that event just an hour or so ago would have felt like on this bed, the warm sheets around them, the springs squeaking at every movement they made.

Before he knew it, he had ruined the blanket quite like the way he had at Mihael's, the image still stained in his retina of the blonde...

* * *

><p><em>The story behind this chapter is actually quite hilarious. XD;<em>

_Ok. So I got through watching Toddlers and Tiaras again, (Let me tell you, that show is disgusting yet enthralling... D'8) and sat down at my computer, thinking what should I write. I had little planned for this chapter, so began looking through some youtube videos for inspiration._

_Interestingly enough, after watching some King of the Hill Youtube Poops, I found what I wanted to do. *laughs* Don't ask me why that made me think of doing another (much better) sex scene, but it did._

_OTL I promise to get back to plot development, once I get this little spurt of wanting to write sex out of my system. (but isn't that the point of fan fictions, to cater to the needs of sex-depraved fan girls? XD) My writing lemon doesn't happen too often, so LIVE IT UP, FAN GIRLS. w_

_Anyway! Hope you guys enjoyed it. ;_; I'm still trying to figure out how far I want to go with this fic, because... if I were to take it where I'm planning it might go TOO far, especially considering I have another idea in my head! D'8 Decisions, decisions._


	6. Chapter 6

-6-

"Mihael," he said, grasping the blonde's shoulders forcefully, "I need to live with you for a while,"

Mihael's face was one of confusion, and he attempted to shake himself out of the grasp of Mail while holding the huge stack of plates in his dominant hand.

"Um...Thank you for letting me know at such a proper time, Mail-" he chuckled lightly, "But I really have to get back to work so-"

"Mihael!" Mail forced him to look back at him, and his gaze was unrelenting, "I just fucking ran away from home, I would bloody well think you could give me a little bit more of your time!"

The man draped in his butler-like attire stared back into those green eyes, before sighing, shrugging out of the grip and going into the kitchen. Mail heard a clatter of plates, and indistinct chatter. Before long Mihael had come back out to the dining hall, shaking his hair out of a ponytail and letting it messily fall about his face.

"Fine," he stomped out the door, Mail following along like a puppy, "We can discuss it, but I intend to find out why you suddenly decided to act like a five-year-old."

"Nate told her everything," he began, his thin fingers stroking the rim of his tea cup as he stared down into the swirling liquid, "every single fucking thing."

Mihael rubbed at his eyes, the glare stinging on his face. "That bastard,"

"I know...B-But..." his voice broke, and he in took a deep breath, "You could imagine my mom wasn't too happy about that...So last night she cornered me, and told me that I was going to burn in Hell if I didn't turn myself around, and that I had a lot to live for and that I shouldn't just-"

Mail was surprised to find Mihael slamming a fist down on the bed post, hard enough to bruise his hands for the next few days: the pain didn't register, and the only thing that _did_ register was Mihael's overflowing anger.

"Fucking whore! The god damn mother fucking son of of a bitch!"

Mail had heard Mihael cuss before, he was no stranger to it, but hearing such a string of curse words fly from his mouth struck him as surprising.

"I _swear_ to God, if I hear another person tell me I'm going to burn in Hell, I'm going to fucking KILL someone!" Mihael had stood up in his rant, pacing about the room, "And here you, the most innocent of bastards I've ever seen, is faced with his own mother-fucking _mother_ telling him he's going to burn in Hell!"

Mail didn't expect those tears that were running down his cheeks when he turned to him, his pale face flickering in the dim light shining in through the windows. Mail could do nothing but sit, still holding peacefully his tea, and stare up at him open-mouthed. Mihael sighed and hurriedly wiped away the tears, sniffling and sitting in the chair across from Mail.

"She told me...She had found out...about what happened to you in Russia."

Silence from the blonde whose face was hidden in shadow.

"I don't care. I don't care what happened...You're still the same person."

"I would have guessed as such," he began, brushing hair out of his face to reveal those puffy brown eyes, "considering you want to live with me now,"

Mail laughed nervously, and took a sip of his tea. "I suppose,"

Mihael stood back up, and wouldn't look at Mail; ashamed of the tears he had shed earlier. He stood away from the red head, and slid off the shirt from his thin, yet well built body. Before being able to continue with his pants, he found a pair of arms wrapped around his waist, pulling him back just an inch into someone's warm grasp.

"Please calm down, Mihael," his voice was velvety, whispered in Mihael's ear. He felt chills run down his spine, and Mail smiled, kissing the crook of his neck.

"Y-You can stay with me as long as you need..."

"Thank you,"

"S-Sure..."

Everyone had expected the inevitable: the fact that war was coming with Germany, and in fact, came. Mail had been living with Mihael for a few months, and after much rig-a-marol with his mother, finally cut off all ties with her. She didn't try to contact Mail; everyone knew where he was and she believed that he would come crawling back to her.

It had been four months and that hadn't happened.

In fact, during the period that he had been away from his mother, Mail had even gone as far gotten himself a job, as to help pay for rent. It was a small job, working in a small

The pressing matter of war obviously was hard on Mail, as his studies slowly faded from his mind, (as did most), and Mihael would find him at random points in the day, sitting on the windowsill, staring out at the planes as they flew overhead.

At this point, it became apparent to Mihael that Mail had really been extremely sheltered; Mihael had seen war, when he was a young child he could remember seeing those who had been wounded in battle; with an extremity gone or two. Mail, however, would shake like a small child whenever he heard news that fighter pilots had been seen from Germany, heading for England.

Of course, the bombing didn't hit Cambridge. So the fear Mail experienced was for naught, and Mihael would have to coax him into comfort once more.

Until he got a telegram saying that his home had been bombed.

'Mail's face was blank and expressionless as he stared down at the small slip of paper in his hands. I was quite speechless, and could only attempt to analyze Mail through his expression; he was usually very obvious in how he was feeling, but today...

I took his hand, lightly feeling of it with my thumb, and tried to create eye contact, straining my head to see his face. His green eyes were blank as usual, staring down at the paper and not seeming to take in my presence.

"Mail?"

The sound of my voice seemed to wake him back up to reality, and he blinked, before looking up at me. For a moment, all we did was stare at one another. I continued to hold his hand, and he didn't resist, but instead he made a small nod of the head. He held my hand tighter, and led me out the door of the small apartment.

The streets outside were crowded with people running to and fro, the smoke from the bomb that had just hit billowing up in clouds of black. Mail and I mixed in with the crowd, but in the opposite direction, towards and into the smoke that lie nearly two miles away. Mail didn't say a word as we walked, and was intent on walking, leading me through the streets not caring who saw.

I made no attempts otherwise, and followed Mail's every steps, all the while with my eyes locked on him, trying to guess what was going through his head. I myself had never really had a true family, so the idea of losing one's parents seemed strange and other-worldly to me.

The wreckage was terrible. Fire still sparked in places from the attack, and several of the other large mansions along the way suffered the same damage. Ambulances, police, and citizens flooded the streets, looking up at the damage. The smoke was nearly blinding at points, as we shuffled in between people.

He let go of my hand, and approached the ruins of his old house slowly, step by step, and no one remained in his way. The way he stared up at the house, at the remains of his old life, probably indicated to them to get out of the way; and I followed tentatively.

Litters of broken wood boards, tile, ornate china and rubble line the sidewalk. When I finally found my way to Mail, I stared him up and down. He wasn't crying, something which surprised me sincerely. Having known Mail for quite a long while now, I had known him to be quite the emotional type. But at seeing the wreckage of his home? Now he decided was the best time to hold back tears; or perhaps he felt none at all?

I took a few steps towards him, standing to his right and just inches from touching. My mind was reeling, as I'm sure Mail's was, trying to figure out the best way to approach this. I hadn't been with someone in a relationship like this, something that was mutually accepted, something that was as passionate as this. What did I tell him?

He seemed to read my mind, and spoke what was going on in my head physically. He looked over to me, and gazed into my eyes, a false smile on his lips. He then, with no care in the world, looked away once more, and fell upon myself, leaning his head on my shoulder and placing most of his weight on me.

I placed my arm around his shoulders, and kissed his head lightly. The world was our's; we had nothing more to fear.

* * *

><p>THIS CHAPTER IS SHORT AND THE FIC ENDS HERE BECAUSE LET ME TELL YOU ALL SOMETHING.<p>

OTL I AM SO TIRED OF THIS FIC RIGHT NOW...YOU HAVE NO IDEA.

After re-writing this chapter about forty-thousand times, redoing it, and REDOING IT, I decided, y'know what?

School's now in session, I have work to do because I have college to think about now. D'8 I shouldn't be using my time up to work on a chapter for a fic that I lost interest in. So it is over. I'm sorry...but I have been so stressed. OTL I have to take a remedial class along with two AP classes, so the workload is sort of intense. ;_; I will be writing more fics as I get less and less off my shoulders, probably more present time and more sexy. Or something with little kids. That's not depressing. That'll be hard for me. ;-;

Anyway. I hope you enjoyed this. ;3; I tried not to end it as sad as Anguish, because, HEY. They ended up together after all. 8'D

Thank you all for commenting! ;w; Reviews are nice, as long as they aren't like 'THIS SUCK HURP DURP TROLLIN''

... =3= Anyway. Thanks.


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